Page 7 of By the Pint

Dima Black was taller than I thought he’d be. Especially considering most vampires had been turned more than five hundred years ago when the human population was, on average, half a foot smaller than we were today. I’d put him at approximately three, four inches shorter than my six-five.

And he was younger too — obviously not younger, but younger looking. He must have been in his early twenties when he became a vampire. Just like my master.

Like every member of the vampiric community, his skin was sheet white bordering grey, his eyes were red, and his hair was black. It fell in soft, wavy layers around his jaw.

But unlike every other vampire I’d met before — and living in the City of the Undead, I’d met a fair few — Dima, Mr Black, was smiling at me. Grinning, actually. It seemed to be growing larger by the millisecond. And hot damn, it was a beautiful smile. Mesmeric.

It grew larger still. There were dimples. His nose wrinkled in the cutest way.

Regroup, Casey. Focus on why you’re here.

Penetrate his mind and extract his business secrets.

I could do that. Easy.

His smile faltered for a beat. “Can I help you?” he said.

Something was off. Not with Mr Black, but with me. Everything was unusually … quiet. I realised I couldn’t hear his thoughts. I shot my penetrative tendrils towards his mind, and they … bounced back to me.

Nothing.

“Hi, Mr Black, it’s so good to meet you.” I closed the distance between us, my arm outstretched, ready to shake his hand. Often, I could get a better read from someone if we were physically touching.

He took my hand in his. His grip was firm, his skin cold. Undead. His thoughts on …

That couldn’t have been right. A huge square of fabric, comprised of smaller squares of fabric, in a rainbow of colours. Patched together with needle and thread … Sewing? No, quilting. Really? That was what he was thinking about?

I stepped my body into his a little, pushing our interconnected hands against my stomach. I had a good stomach. Many, many hours of work had gone into sculpting that stomach. There could be no way he was—

Still thinking about quilting.

Hot damn.

Were my skills broken? Was he broken? Surely, with his hand pressed against my abdomen, there’d be other thoughts swirling around in there?

Change of tactic.

I ruffled my hair and tilted my head ever so slightly to the right, exposing my pulse. A manoeuvre I’d learned frommy time with the vamps. It always garnered some reflexive visceral reaction — usually of the salivating variety — and ignited dormant impulses and temptations. Usually of the illegal biting variety.

Mr Black’s eyes slid down to my neck. His brow gave the tiniest flex, and his mouth parted, before it fixed itself into another grin. If possible, even larger than the one before.

No chance in hell he was still thinking about quilting. I tried to force my way into his mind again, but I was met with rainbows of fabric, and pincushions, and ribbons.

Bias binding.The word floated around Mr Black’s subconscious. So, not ribbons then. Whatever.

He laughed and gripped my hand tighter. “Please, call me Dima,” he said, in a voice that was surprisingly breathy for someone who didn’t actually breathe.

“Uh …” I pulled my focus back and my hand away. Maybe my telepathy skills needed recharging or something, though some people’s minds were like this. I didn’t know how some had these barriers up, I didn’t even know if the owners of the minds knew, but often once you got to know a person a little better, they would ... get lowered? I wasn’t really sure. “I’m … Sean.”

All part of Killian’s plan. Lie to Mr Black. Make up fake identities so he’d never know it was us that stole his secrets.

“Sean?” Dima said back to me like a question.

“I’m a big fan,” I said. The truth. Though, it felt odd for me to say it rather than hear it from some wingball groupie.

“So, She-awn,” Dima said over enunciating my fake name, turning it into two syllables. “What do you want from me?”

“I just …” I cast my eyes around his booth. If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t think this interaction would have made it this far. I figured I’d meet Mr Black, suck out his—Dima gave a cough, which may have been a badly disguised laugh—secrets, and be on my merry way already. Yes, some people were more difficult to read than others — Killian called them cheugs — and I’d guessed Dima was just one of those people. Still, nothing worth having came easy, right?

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